Hell and Consequences
by sphinxofthenile
Summary: How did Hugue manage to aquire the blueprints of Silent Noise? This is my version. Part 2 is now up! Pairings for this chapter: Gyula/Hugue, Dietrich solo, mentions of Isaak/Dietrich
1. Barcelona

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Trinity Blood. If I did... yaoi fangirls would squee. ;-)

**Warnings:** angst, references to character death, yaoi

**A/N:** My first TB fanfic, based entirely on the anime. Hopefully the first part in a three-part series. Please R&R!

* * *

The sun shines down hotly on the city, highlighting every tiny detail of the horrible sight. There are no streets, no squares remaining. I push a bothersome blonde lock back from my eyes, pausing for a moment to look around before I make my way down to the small valley between two enormous piles of broken stone. 

I search the ruins of the once proud building, not entirely sure what I'm looking for in the terrible destruction that once was Barcelona. I only know one thing. That there has to be some sort of clue. Noelle couldn't die for nothing. There has to be something. Kate archived her last conversation with Abel.

_Blueprints._

She mentioned something about blueprints.

I have to find something. I have to, because here could lie something that can help me avenge my loved ones. Among them now, Noelle.

Noelle… Always so kind to everyone, so bright, sometimes even a bit silly. But inside her was a silent wisdom, a quiet sadness that made it easy for me to talk to her. Always so caring, so understanding…

I've chosen her as my confessor.

It is so hard to accept that she is gone now and these sad ruins are her gravestone. So deserted, so empty, so… _grey_.

In this area I'm now in, the walls are quite intact, and I wander deeper into the building, though it's anything but safe. At least it is shadowed, protected from the heat of the blazing sun outside. I search the debris covering the floor, my heart heavy with the grief and anger I feel seeing this senseless destruction.

„Looking for these?"

I spin around to see a young man holding up a few sheets of paper, and my eyes narrow at him. My hand is on my sword before the movement registers in my brain. He is a quite beautiful and a very alarming sight as he is wearing a pristine uniform of some sort.

„Who are you?"

I can tell he is not a Methuselah, but there is something unnerving about him, maybe the way he stands there, too self-confident and smug for someone so young.

I don't like the way he smiles.

„I'm Dietrich von Lohengrin."

_What?_

Abel had faced a Dietrich on one of his previous missions. Dietrich… from the Rosenkreuz Orden. My grip tightens on my weapon, my lips baring teeth.

„What do you want, Puppet Master?"

He smiles arrogantly, but the twinkle in his eyes gives away his pleasant surprise.

„Oh, so our dear Abel told you about me."

He is smiling, his fox-like eyes studying me slyly. Then he lets out a soft chuckle, raises his hand and steps closer. Then closer and closer…

My eyes open wide as I realise I can't move away. I want to, but I feel the pain of invisible restraints cutting into my flesh, and I struggle, but can't escape their firm grip that pulls my hands to my sides and holds them there securely.

„So… what else did he tell you about me?"

His satisfaction is so thick in his voice I can almost taste it. My mind is working furiously to come up with a way to turn the tables in my favor, but his magic holds me captive, so I do the only thing I can.

I wait.

He steps behind me, so close I can feel his hot breath on my neck as he whispers sweetly, lecherously.

„Did you make him confess his sins,_ Father_? How we met in that dirty alleyway back in Istavan? How he moaned your name as I got him off?"

_You lie… _

He gives emphasis to his words with a tentative lick to my ear. I close my eyes and feel the rage boiling inside me searching for outlet, seeking to move, to kill, to destroy.

His words burn my soul like acid spilled on open wounds. I grit my teeth to hold back the curse that is threatening to escape my lips. I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

He is still behind me, his body pressed to mine, his long, slender fingers slowly sliding underneath the long coat and down my chest and lower… lower…

„Stop."

His fingertips are hovering teasingly over my hipbone for a moment before he moves further down and starts stroking my cock lazily.

My whole body tenses, I want to push him away and all I can do is stare daggers at the invasive hand.

_No one plays me like that…_

But behind the red haze of anger and the black mist of hatred I can't deny that it feels _good_.

„And why…" Kiss. „would I…" Kiss. „do that?" Lick.

Bloody hell, he knows what he is doing. His fingers move gently, slowly, creating a delicious friction that is too strong to be ignored, but not enough to bring gratification. His other hand slides under the fabric of my shirt with practiced ease, his skin is cool on mine and I shiver.

Suddenly, he brushes a thumb at the head and I let out a throaty moan. His lips are caressing my neck right below the ear as he speaks, his left hand wandering to trail my ribs.

„Oh, you liked that, didn't you?" His voice is seductive, mischievous, sweetly mocking and deep with lust. He flicks out his tongue to taste skin, and his hot breath on the cooling saliva sends a shiver down my spine.

„Let me hear it. Nothing to hold back. Give me those moans. Your control. Break for me, Sword Dancer."

I grind my teeth together and defiantly shake my head as much as I can. It earns me a dark chuckle, and he is kissing and licking my neck, lips slowly sliding down to the junction of neck and shoulder to bite and suck on sensitive flesh, and it is getting harder and harder just to breathe.

„I'll kill you." I grunt, and I can hear the smirk in his voice as he answers.

„Oh, really?"

His left hand finds a nipple, playing with it with deft fingers while he is stroking my arousal harder, faster. I can feel the tension growing in my muscles, my breathing is shallow, and as he squeezes a bit harder, palm fondling my balls, my hips start moving against my will.

I can feel him smiling against my skin as he is nibbling at my earlobe.

„Somehow, I doubt it", he murmurs softly, hands never ceasing the blissful torture of my flesh. Soon, he'll have me where he wants it. If he doesn't already.

He presses his erection to my ass, moving his hips in time with his hand and I can't help it but sigh deeply. That earns me yet another chuckle from those merciless lips. I shudder feeling my approaching completion, my cock dripping with precum. He wipes the droplets away with his fingers and lifts them to my lips so I can taste it.

I don't want to. But he forces two fingers in, making me savor the pearly essence, and explores freely. I bite his fingers as hard as I can. I manage to draw blood and I smirk. He pulls them free, pale skin now tainted with red, a malevolent reminder of a spark of free will inside me.

He slaps me so hard his blood in my mouth mixes with mine.

„Slut." He sais, and he yanks my head back by pulling at my hair. He doesn't sound the least irritated though. Quite the contrary. He spins me around and kisses me hard, and I could swear he is purring into my mouth.

His tongue explores just as thoroughly as his fingers did, finally stopping to lick at the small wound. Taking my split lip between his he starts sucking, and this delicate mixture of pleasure and pain goes straight to my groin, making me whimper and crave more of this poisonous rapture.

He laughs into the kiss, an evil, victorious sound that seems to be bubbling from the depths of his very soul, something dark and hollow behind tissue and bone.

_What is this creature?_

He smells like desire and tastes like sin, like bitter chocolate and cranberries.

My instincts push me towards him, wanting to find gratification, needing it so badly, while everything else pushes me away. I'm dancing on the edge of a knife, torn between lust and hate, body and soul.

His lithe body is pressed to mine, hips grinding together, lips still sealed in the cruel kiss. I want to stop, stop the movement of my hips, the needy little pants pouring from my throat, but he bites my lower lip, causing more blood to ooze from the gash, and I lose myself in the feel of his slick, lapping tongue, the coppery taste of red life and the heat of his breath coming out in ragged, shallow exhales.

It doesn't matter anymore why he is doing this, what is the reason behind all of this. I let my thoughts slip away with unnatural carelessness, the only thing that is on my mind is the fact that his hands stopped their ministrations and his hips are not enough.

As if he is reading my mind, his hand slides between us, freeing himself first, then wrapping around both of our lengths. His palm is hot and his grip is tight, and I'm so close...

„Father?" Comes an unsure, tiny voice from not afar, and everything seems to freeze and stop in time, only the sound of our blood pounding and our ragged breaths we can't control disturb the silence.

I recognise the voice of the little girl who led me here. I told her to wait outside where she would be safe. At any other circumstances I would reprimand her for breaking her promise, but right now she is my chance, the chance I've been so desperately waiting for.

I open my mouth to call out for her to run and bring help, but he silences me with a rough kiss and pushes me into a nearby dark alcove. When his lips leave mine, his magic seals them, and I shoot him a look that would make any sane man run for cover.

Doesn't seem to disturb him, though.

He puts his index finger to my mouth, first just resting it there, then slowly stroking as he listens contentedly to her voice fading away in the distance. His caresses leave a tingling sensation in their wake.

„How unfortunate that we were interrupted like this…" He purrs into my ear and chuckles. „I've enjoyed our little encounter, _Father_."

He quickly rearranges his clothing and then resumes leaning into me, nuzzling my cheek and looking up into my eyes with his chocolate ones so full of dark amusement and sinister delight.

„Come to the Castillo in Madrid tomorrow evening, and I will give you the blueprints."

I manage to arch and eyebrow, and he flashes a radiant smile at me before touching his lips to my ear again and answering my unspoken question.

„Because this is the only way for you to save your beloved Vatican and the people of Rome." He whispers sweetly, and my eyes open wide as the words finally sink in.

The next moment he shoves me so hard to the ground without even touching me that my teeth clash. By the time I gather myself together and my head stops spinning he is already gone, the only remainder of him the dark chuckle that still echoes in my mind and the tiny piece of elegant ivory paper in my hand that reads:

_Castillo de Noche, Calle Augustina, 280766 Madrid_

I slowly slide down to a sitting position by the wall, and leaning my head to the hard stone I close my eyes.

_What the fuck had just happened?_

I pull together my long overcoat and shiver despite the warm temperature. It feels like waking from one of my nightmares, only this time I'm wide awake. I rub my face with my palm, but it does little to make me feel better.

I stare at the address, and wonder if this interlude actually caused me to lose my mind.

I wasn't considering it for a split second, was I?

* * *

**A/N2:** Next part is Gyula/Hugue with a little Dietrich thrown in for good measure. Stay tuned and don't forget to review! Reviews feed my muses. :) 


	2. Madrid

**Disclaimer: I wish I owned them.**

**Warning: angst, vampirism, Die's dirty mind, violance, yaoi**

**AN: I know I'm awfully late with this, my apologies! I blame it all on my Die muse taking an unexpected holiday. "glares at him"**

* * *

The evening is warm for the season, the air fresh and fragrant after the afternoon rain. There are no clouds to cover the splendour of the twilight sky over Madrid.

"How disgustingly idyllic," Dietrich thinks staring at the soft colors, worthy of any painter's attention, through the venetian windows of the mansion.

The only light in the room he is in comes from outside, and dark shadows already start to form in the farthest corners, but the darkness doesn't bother him. Quite the contrary. He basks in it, feeling the soothing touch of the shadows on his skin. For so long had they been his most appreciated companions. But lately, he had grown accustomed to another presence too, and the room feels strangely empty without it.

Without _him_.

He hates it, the way he makes him feel, the way he treats him, as if he is still just a child, his personal source of amusement. The truth is, he stopped being a child the moment his father tried to kill him and ended up with his own knife in his guts.

And that was quite a long time ago.

But Isaak, _Isaak, _always so calm, so aloof, collected, damn annoyingly _perfect _doesn't seem to notice, or just purposefully ignores it.

It pisses Dietrich off to no end.

And there is nothing to do about it. If he provokes an argument, it is always Isaak who has the last word in it. If they end up between the cool sheets of the bed (or on top of the huge desk for that matter), Isaak always makes sure to put him back to his place before leaving. If he tries something (and he always does), Isaak knows how to turn the tables on him.

His hands ball into fists and he exhales slowly. Then deciding to concentrate more on the matter at hand, he recalls his encounter with the infamous Sword Dancer, and his lips spread into a smug little smile.

He still doesn't know why Cain planned it like this. Why would he hand over the blueprints to the Vatican if he was willing to help d'Este destroy it? Dietrich has a gut feeling it has something to do with Abel, but no clue about why or how. Isaak surely knows more about it than he does, but Dietrich knows better than to ask.

Now in retrospect he doesn't mind his mission half as much as he thought he would. He almost threw a tantrum fit over having to go back to Barcelona alone just to offer a deal to some annoying, lowly Vatican priest. Only when he was already in the levelled city did Isaak tell him whom he was about to meet, and in an instant the whole situation seemed to brighten.

There was no challange in meeting a priest, but meeting a member of AX was a different matter entirely. Especially this one, who had decimated the Methuselah population of Amsterdam only a few weeks prior, if the rumors were true.

Now that was something to look forward to, even if only half-heartedly. However, the man overshone his every expectation.

When he first laid eyes on him, the blonde stood on a pile of debris, looking down on the ruined city, and instead of pity and sadness, his face was lit by a sacred fury, hand on the hilt of his weapon…

Like a wrathful archangel.

That moment on, Dietrich knew he wanted to break him. And he had been oh so close to achieving his goal…

He closes his eyes, recalling the feel of that long, wavy blonde mane around his fingers, the sweet scent of the golden hair and the magnificient taste of blood on those silky, defiant lips. His fingers sliding over scarred skin stretching over taut muscles, his mouth ghosting over the pale column of the priest's neck, tasting of both hatred and desire.

Just those memories are enough to send his blood rushing straight down, and Dietrich tilts his head back, enjoying the feeling curling and uncurling in his stomach. It's been quite a while since someone other than Isaak had such an effect on him, and for a brief second he wonders if he would care for a split second if he could've finished what he had started back then with the priest.

Probably not. But what does it matter?

There is only one other who makes him feel like this, even now that he is gone forever, most likely for the very same reason. Now that the Marquis is dead, Dietrich will never have the chance to break him, and thus the temptation remains. It's one of the few regrets he has. The chance was there… and sins are ever so sweet.

_Alabaster skin, enticing waves of dark brown locks falling into a face that is so perfect it almost looks dead and empty like that of a marble angel, weren't it for the deep grey eyes shining with a perpetual, uncurable sadness… They make him look so beautiful, so ethereal. But behind all that there is a soul chiselled by loss; hardened, refined._

_The way he walks, the movements so measured, dignified; the way he speaks, it makes that entirely barbaric mother tongue of his sound like the light wind's caress over the water that cuts his beloved city into two._

Oh, Dietrich has quite a few memories from Istavan he wants to keep. He looks at the setting sun, red, just like the blood that sings in his body a sweet siren song that calls to him, seductive, enticing. Poisonous. Dietrich listens to it, not quite giving in, but enjoying it nonetheless; he lets it flow through him even though he could cut it off, he could.

He looks into the sun and lets his fingers rest on the thick velvet of the curtains, hips leaning to the polished wooden panelling as he stands on the border of blazing crimson light and sleek shadows, basking in the glorious perversity of his mind.

_Elegant, long fingers sliding on pale, marred skin, halted by the magnificent golden waves of hair that hang to the priest's chest, long nails separating the silky strands by scraping down that torso so beautiful in it's imperfection. Down, down, down… Over the smooth skin of a hipbone, that fits the palm of the narrow hand so well as the thin, deadly fangs sink into flesh, his throat working in long swallows of the essence that is thick, so rich, like wine and sweet as the ripe flesh of plums, a taste that drives him insane. _

He lets his fingers toy with the velvet, and they slip closer, almost as if by coincidence. There isn't much difference between velvet and velvet, and they slowly trail the lining of his pants. So nice, so luxorious. It feels warm on his skin, the thick black material hugging him tight. Too tight, in fact.

_Moans, oh so delicious moans, quiet, drawn out, pleading moans. Soundless gasps turning into groans, long, keening cries and breathless whines, so sweet, so intoxicating in their raw, primitive communication. Hands entangling in long, messy hair, gripping, pulling, lips crashing to lips as shaky breaths are traded between the two contrasting beauties. The Marquis Gyula, dark, ethereal, and the angelic priest, mortal, bright and fleeting like the sunlight, tied together in his mind by the same strength, sadness and beauty._

_And their perpetual hate against each other's races that knows no mercy or forgiveness. _

_Kisses turning into pecks, nips, licks, a delicate rhapsody of pleasure and pain, heady like the fruity spirits people in Istavan are so proud and fond of. Hands grabbing, guiding, stroking, dancing along hard flesh and pliant skin, touching, exploring, claiming, marking._

The material is hot and hard under his palm, then, as his slender fingers start their slow up and down slide, Dietrich tilts his head back. Pale, aristocratic lips open just slightly while dark brown eyes fall shut, long, silky lashes resting against soft, flawless skin, its slight flush accentuated by the last rays of the dying sun, fingers of his idle hand curving in the way he usually holds his strings.

_Slender bodies pressed together in a dance that for this one time is not a duel. No weapons, no powers, just bare hands to give and take. Hips thrusting, backs arching, pressing them even closer to each other, moans spilling uncontrollably from shapely lips, a panted „mine", a groaned „harder", a final roll of bodies… _

His body demands him to speed up, but the measured movements of his hand never waver. Control, it's all about control, always was and always will, and he prides himself on the hold he has, he _usually_ has over his body and soul. To rule others, you have to rule yourself first, isn't it how it's said? And in the end, control, rule, manipulation, body and soul, they all come down to one thing. They all come down to power.

And Dietrich knows those who have power have everything.

That's what he keeps in mind as he finally lets go, submitting to the images he had conjured up for his own entertainment, because he _decided_ to allow himself to do so, because he _can_, and in the ashen darkness only a barely there sigh signals his release. Wiping his hand clean on the red velvet he pulls up the zipper and leaves, not caring to clean up the mess he had left.


End file.
